I might have pondered those questions a little longer had sleep not invaded. The next thing I knew, it was morning, and my bedside phone was ringing.
“Hello?” I said groggily.
“ ‘Morning, Jess,” Vaughan Buckley said. “Thought I’d ring you in case you didn’t leave a wake-up call.”
I sat up. “I’m glad you did. I forgot to.”
“Breakfast at seven.”
“Yes, I know. I’d better get moving.”
“Sleep well?”
“Like a rock, although at the moment I don’t feel like it.”
“Is your room okay?”
“Oh, yes.” I laughed. “It defines opulence. A suite. Grand piano and all.”
“Grand piano? You’ll have to give us a tour after breakfast. See you downstairs.”
I unpacked the rest of my things in a hurry, showered, dressed in the day’s chosen outfit, and left the suite at the stroke of seven. As I opened the door and stepped into the hall, a man who’d been leaning against the wall, startled at my sudden appearance, stiffened and turned his back to me.
“Dobraya utra,” I said, passing him.
He returned my good morning in Russian.
At breakfast a stocky, gray-faced older man in a double-breasted brown suit welcomed us to Moscow and laid out our schedule. It was a full day, beginning after breakfast when we would meet with the new government’s cultural ministers. Then it was on to a tour of the Museum of the History of Moscow, lunch with government officials at Aragvi, a state-run restaurant, a bus tour of the city, two free hours for shopping, dinner at a sixteenth-century monastery, the performance of a contemporary Russian play at the LenKom Theater, and finally a Russian nightclub. It was exhausting just thinking about it.
Immediately following breakfast, I sought out the gentleman who’d briefed us, Pyotr Belopolsky.
“Mr. Belopolsky,” I said, “my name is Jessica Fletcher.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in excellent English, taking my hand. “A distinct pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you. I received a call last night from a woman who is a member of a Russian mystery writer’s club.”
“Oh?”
“She said arrangements had been made for me to address the group.”
“I am not aware of such a plan, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“You aren’t? Is there someone else who might have made such arrangements?”
“I don’t think so. I would have known. But I will ask others and report to you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Belopolsky. I appreciate it.”
“What was her name?” he asked.
“I think it was—I have it here.” I pulled out the slip of paper containing her name and address. “Her name is Alexandra Kozhina.”
I detected a flash of recognition on his face. But he said, “No, I do not know of such a person.”
“Well, if I’m to address her group, you’ll let me know.”
“Of course.”
As I turned to rejoin the others, Karl Warner, who’d taken the deceased Ward Wenington’s place, approached me. If his job was the same as Wenington’s, he went about it with more discretion. I hadn’t seen him since leaving Washington. He was on the flight, but sat far removed from me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.
“Good morning, Mr. Warner.”
“Ready for a busy day?”
“I suppose so. They’ve certainly packed a lot into it.”
“How was your evening last night?”
“Fine. I was tired. Enjoyed room service and early to bed.”
His grin was lopsided. “Sounds sensible.”
“Will you be with us today?” I asked.
“Yup. Can’t get rid of me that easy.”
“I wasn’t suggesting I wanted to,” I said. “Any further word on Mr. Wenington’s death?”
“No. Take a while I suppose before they determine how he died. Enjoy the day, Mrs. Fletcher. Looks pretty decent outside, considering it’s Moscow.”
He walked away, and I thought of his final comment. He was obviously no stranger to the city. Working for the U.S. government must take him to many foreign locations, including Russia. What had life been like here when it was the Soviet Union and controlled by Communists? I wondered, grateful I never had to experience it first-hand.
Warner had been right. It was a cool, sunny day in Moscow, with a bracing breeze coming down the street as we waited for our cars to arrive. Vlady Staritova came up to me. I’d noticed at breakfast that his wife wasn’t with him. I asked about her.
“Now we are home,” he said, “she had other duties to which to attend. But she will join us for dinner.”
“Good,” I said. “Were you born in Moscow, Vlady?”
“No. Kiev.”
“As in chicken Kiev?” I asked.
“Kievskaya kotleta,” he said with a chuckle, translating the famous chicken dish into Russian. “You have never tasted it until you have tasted it in Kiev.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” I said as the cars came around the corner and pulled up to the curb.
“I want you to visit my office while you are here,” he said. “After all, I am now your Russian publisher.”
“I’d be pleased to do that,” I said, “providing they give us a little time off.”
“I will see to it that they do,” he said. “I will be riding with you all day. I arranged it.”
I smiled sweetly. “That’s ... wonderful.”
The day went by quickly. Our hosts were gracious, if not frenetic, as they tried to keep to the schedule. I was glad I’d worn sensible shoes. Aside from the two hours on the bus, we walked everywhere, through the vast museum, around the remarkable Kremlin complex, and up and down city streets during our shopping break, led by a stylishly dressed Russian woman who steered us into selected shops.
We had dinner at U Pirosmani, named after the famed Georgian artist, Niko Pirosmani. It was across a pond from a sixteenth-century monastery, and featured Georgian food, distinctly different, we were told, from cuisine in other regions of the vast country that contained eleven time zones; Dublin is closer to Moscow than many Russian cities.
Our ranks had swelled considerably by the time we arrived at the restaurant. Many Russian publishing executives had traveled to Washington without their wives. Now, in their home city, their spouses had joined them.
There were also a number of others who’d become part of our growing entourage, young men of the type I’d first noticed at the National Gallery of Art dinner in Washington. The difference here was that there were more of them. Karl Warner congregated with a half-dozen other Americans. On the other side of the room stood six or seven young Russian men in suits. I’d come to the conclusion that no matter what their stated roles, they represented security—or were members of their respective country’s intelligence apparatus. Either way, my reaction was ambivalent. There was comfort in their presence. Simultaneously, there was something off-putting in their eagle-eyed scrutiny of everything and everyone, particularly the Russians whose basic brooding nature gave them a perpetual threatening and ominous appearance.
As had been the case all along, the event of the moment caused one to forget they were there, and to become immersed in conversation and, always, food and drink.
The menu was presented in Russian on a blackboard. Mr. Belopolsky, the Russian counterpart to the American Sam Roberts in Washington, suggested that he order for us.
“Zakuski for everyone,” he told the waiter, indicating a variety of appetizers. “Be sure to include plenty khinkali and gruzinskaya kapusta.”
I would learn when the platters arrived that he’d asked for lots of meat dumplings and marinated red cabbage. It all tasted wonderful, although I kept thinking of Charlene Sassi’s admonition about the caloric clout of Russian food.
Accompanying the zakuski, of course, was an unending supply of “darling little water”—vodka—and Champagne, which only fueled the
ebullient mood at dinner after a long, arduous day.
Vladislav Staritova sat next to me. He’d consumed enough vodka to float the proverbial battleship. His speech was slurred, and he’d reverted to directing terms of endearment at me despite his wife’s presence to his immediate right.
“Ah, my favorite,” he said, looking at the main course being served—roast chicken smothered in a heavy white sauce. Vlady leaned close and said into my ear, loudly, “Do you know how we Russians slaughter chicken?”
“How?” I said, playing the perfect straightwoman.
“Starvation.” He laughed, causing him to go into a coughing fit. He eventually got over it, licked his lips, and said of the plates before us, “You will like this very much, Jessica. A sweet meal for a sweet lady.” He winked at me; the back of his hand brushed my thigh, and I moved my chair a few inches away.
I barely touched my entree; I was stuffed from all the rich food that had come before. The vodka and Champagne had loosened everyone’s tongues, and the noise level had steadily risen.
A trio of Russian musicians suddenly appeared and started playing, which added to the festive spirit permeating the room. One of the Russian publishers insisted that the wife of an American join him on the dance floor in the center of the horseshoe-table setup. The music had an infectious melody and beat, and we began clapping as the man and woman moved awkwardly to the music.
“Jessica?” Staritova said, pushing himself up and grabbing my hand.
“Oh, no.” I said. “Absolutely not.”
I heard his wife say, “Sit down you old fool.”
He did, to my relief.
His wife’s harsh comment had deflated him. He sat dejectedly, eyes focused on his empty plate, mouth moving as though rehearsing a retort. I felt bad for him. He really was a decent sort when not under the influence of “darling little water.”
A waiter whisked away our plates, followed by another waiter who placed desserts in front of us, pastries smothered in chocolate sauce and whipped cream. The band played louder. Others joined the couple on the dance floor. I started to feel dizzy and slightly nauseated.
I didn’t know the name of the song, but it reached a point where the Russians suddenly yelped some phrase in concert with the musicians.
I considered leaving the table and going to a rest room. It had all been too much—the long flight, all the food and drink—although I’d barely sipped some vodka to be polite to my hosts—the music, the noise, the ...
I turned to Vlady to excuse myself.
He looked at me. His eyes bulged, his mouth hung open. His face was beet red.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
He replied by squaring himself in his chair, taking a deep and prolonged breath, and pitching forward, his head hitting his dessert plate with a thud. Chocolate syrup and whipped cream gushed from the plate, creating a black-and-white nest for his face.
His wife screamed.
No one heard because of the music and singing.
I turned to a dour young Russian man who’d been seated to my left. He was gone.
“Help!” I shouted, standing.
The music stopped. People turned and looked at me.
I pointed to Staritova’s lifeless body.
“He’s dead,” I said.
And so he was.
Chapter Ten
Chaos erupted once it was evident—and confirmed—that Vladislav Staritova, my Russian publisher, was dead. Women screamed, men evoked God, and restaurant employees stood in stunned silence.
Karl Warner came immediately to me, gripped my elbow with not inconsiderable pressure, and led me to a comer of the large dining room. I looked to Vaughan and Olga Buckley, who stood with others in an opposite comer. I started toward them, but Warner stopped me.
“I want to be with my friends,” I said.
Warner said nothing.
“But I—”
A man ran into the room and came to us. “Ready,” he announced.
“Let’s go,” Warner said to me.
“Go where?” I asked.
“Out of here. Come on. The car’s waiting.”
“What about them?” I asked, indicating the Buckleys and others.
“They’ll follow shortly.”
“No,” I said. “I’m staying with them.”
Warner fixed me with a stare that would cut steel. “Please, Mrs. Fletcher, don’t argue. It’s for your safety.”
“My safety? I—”
Hand still holding my elbow, he propelled me across the floor, skirting the tables, and to the door.
“Jessica,” Vaughan called.
I stopped, turned, and made a gesture of helplessness.
“Come on,” Warner said, even more stem this time.
The limos that had brought us to the restaurant stood at-the-ready, lights on, doors open, engines running. The young Russian men from our group lined the walkway, displaying weapons.
Vaughan Buckley emerged from the restaurant as I was about to get into the back of the car. I shook off Wamer’s grip on me and took steps in Vaughan’s direction.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Mr. Warner insists I leave with him.”
Buckley faced Warner. “She stays with me,” he said.
“Look,” Warner said, “we have to leave here now! You can talk about it back at the hotel. Please, Mr. Buckley, don’t interfere.”
Vaughan looked on helplessly as Warner guided me into the limo, climbed in beside me, and slammed the door. “Move!” he shouted at the driver. The vehicle lurched forward.
“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice mirroring my upset and concern.
“The hotel.”
“But why couldn’t I go with my friends?”
“Because this doesn’t involve them.”
“What doesn’t involve them? A man died. A heart attack, I suppose. It involves all of us because we were there.”
“I’ll explain later,” Warner said.
“No,” I said. “You’ll explain now!”
He turned from me and peered out the window. End of conversation. We rode in silence all the way to the Savoy.
Still not saying anything, Warner escorted me to my suite.
“I must tell you, Mr. Warner, that I resent being treated this way.”
“You resent being kept safe?” he asked, opening doors to closets and the bathroom and drawing the drapes tightly shut.
“Mr. Warner,” I said, trying to sound as reasonable as possible, “I’m not critical of your doing your job, whatever it is. But Mr, Staritova’s unfortunate death tonight was obviously the result of natural causes. I fail to see where my safety is in jeopardy.”
He ignored what I said.
“Mr. Warner, why was I whisked out of the restaurant while the others stayed?”
“Excuse me,” he said, picking up the phone and dialing a number. “Jeff, Karl here. She’s in her suite.”
He listened to what Jeff said, whoever he was, hung up, and faced me. “Mrs. Fletcher, I have to be somewhere else. You are not to leave the suite.”
“Why?”
He walked to the door.
“Mr. Warner,” I said, loudly.
He turned, his expression quizzical.
“I insist I be told why I’m being treated this way. I am, after all, an American citizen.”
“I’ll be back. There’ll be someone outside your door. Sorry for being so brusque. I’ll explain later.”
He left.
I was consumed with frustration and confusion. I hadn’t been able to get a straight answer from anyone since arriving in Washington. Ward Wenington had avoided answering even my simplest of questions when it involved who he was, what he did, and why he was with our trade mission.
His successor, Karl Warner, was equally evasive.
Why?
Surely, having someone keel over at a dinner was not cause to treat the situation as though an armed attack were under way.
&nbs
p; The vision of Vlady Staritova collapsing next to me at the dinner table generated a pervasive wave of sadness, especially when I thought of his wife. Poor thing. One minute her husband was laughing and drinking and urging me to join him on the dance floor. The next moment he was dead. I wish I’d been a little more gracious to him. I suppose we always wish we’d been more of something, or less, when someone we know dies.
I opened my door. Standing in the dim hallway was the same man who’d been there when I left that morning. I shut the door, then opened it again. He looked Russian to me. He certainly wasn’t an American. Why would Karl Warner have a Russian standing guard outside my suite?
But then it occurred to me that because the same man had been there in the morning, chances were he wasn’t working for Warner.
Who was he working for?
The phone rang.
“Jessica? Vaughan.”
“Where are you?” I asked.
“In our room. You all right?”
“Yes. Shaken, of course, but—”
“Why were you rushed out of the restaurant? They detained us outside for fifteen minutes.”
“I don’t know, Vaughan. I’ve been asking myself the same question.”
“Let’s meet downstairs. There’s a bar, I think.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t leave my room. Mr. Warner’s orders.”
“Who the hell is he to be giving you orders like that?”
“I’ve asked that question. He ignores it every time.”
“Then I’m coming up. What room are you in?”
I told him.
“Be there in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was Vaughan.
“Coming?” I asked.
“No. I tried. There are three goons in suits just outside your elevator. No one’s allowed down your hallway.”
“I can’t believe this,” I said.
“I’m trying to reach our Russian host, Belopolsky, and the embassy.”
Murder in Moscow Page 8